


Gaslight & Greasepaint

by hobbitsdoitbetter



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Awesome Molly Hooper, Established Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper, F/M, Idiots in Love, Jealous Sherlock, Married Sex, Mary Ships It, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Molly Hooper Appreciation, Molly Hooper/Mary Morstan Friendship, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Tenderness, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 04:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13967328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobbitsdoitbetter/pseuds/hobbitsdoitbetter
Summary: "Rosamund Mary Georgiana Morstan," Sherlock practically growls to the evening-suited woman in front of him, "what on Earth did you think you were doing, bringing her here?!"Sherlock Holmes' sweet, innocent bride has been lead astray by Dance Hall proprietress Mary Morstan, and her husband wishes to save her from herself... Though he might have to save her from himself and his manly appetites first...AU, Victorian, very NSFW. Enjoy! Brought to you by Moodyblue42 over on tumblr.





	Gaslight & Greasepaint

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for the lovely moodyblue42 over on tumblr, and is reposted here with her permission. Enjoy!

* * *

**~ GASLIGHT & GREASE-PAINT ~**

* * *

 

Sherlock Holmes is practically vibrating with rage by the time they get through the foyer, and he doubted Lestrade could blame him.

"Rosamund Mary Georgiana Morstan," he practically growls to the evening-suited woman in front of him, "what on Earth did you think you were doing, bringing her here?!"

And he jerks his chin in the direction of the Lyceum stage. Clenches his hands into fists as Lestrade follows his line of vision and then promptly lets his mouth fall open in shock, which is, Sherlock knows, the only correct reaction to the sight before him.

"My word," the policeman breathes, blushing in embarrassment. He looks warily at Holmes. "That is to say-"

"You needn't say anything, Lestrade," Sherlock bites out darkly. "Your reaction speaks for itself."

For at the front of the stage, in full view of a mainly male audience,Sherlock's new wife, the beautiful and clever and utterly respectable Miss Molly Hooper, is standing in the spotlight, singing. _Singing._

She's not even covered her arms, Holmes thinks darkly, and her ankles are enticingly visible beneath her skirts.

She has the focus of every man in the room and at the thought Sherlock grits his teeth angrily, tries to bring himself under control.

 _This is not the way a gentleman reacts to such provocation_ , he reminds himself sternly, _and where Molly is concerned you have always sworn to be a gentleman._ But he finds he cannot help himself: jealousy twists her talons in him, far more sharply than she ever has before. For Molly is singing, something she had preciously only ever done for him, in private. She is also parading herself before the audience. Smiling for them. Teasing them.

This sort of flirtation has likewise always previously been Sherlock's remit alone.

And she looks so beautiful, more beautiful even than she usually does: Her hair hangs in a cloud around her shoulders, diamonds glittering at her throat, her wrists. The sparkling baubles continue across her- Sherlock gulps at the sight- across her gown's bodice. Across the feathered fan she's teasing the audience with...

At the sight of her wielding such an object (and despite his better judgment) Sherlock's cock twitches in his smalls.

Again he grits his teeth in temper.

To his right he sees Mary- _bloody Mary!_ \- smirk knowingly and he tightens his fists again.

 _Be gentlemanly,_ he reminds himself yet again. _ **Be calm**._

_John will be tedious if you murder his fiancee._

But he's fighting a losing battle, and he knows it. For a tiny voice inside his head, a voice which he seldom ever listens to, has started whispering about what precisely a man could do to that costume, what precisely a man could do to the soft, sweet woman inside it-

"Game little thing, isn't she?" Mary smirks. "Pretty too. And I never knew she had such a lovely singing voice!" Another knowing smirk. "You're a lucky man, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock glowers at her and she holds her hands before her placatingly.

"Don't look at me like that- I was in a bind," she says. "Neither you, nor John, nor any of my regulars were about, and I needed someone trustworthy who could get in here and distract Moran-"

Sherlock grimaces. "So instead of handling things yourself, you dragged my innocent Molly in here?" A horrid thought occurs. "Did Moran-?"

"No, of course not." Mary shakes her head. "I'm not so foolish as to give him that chance, not with what I know about him."

Sherlock feels at least some of his anger ease, and then immediately feels angry at his loss of anger. _Typical._

"And since you didn't ask," Mary continues wryly, "Moran is currently knocked out in the Green Room backstage." She shakes her head, grinning. "Laudanum in his champagne, once Molly had him distracted." She looks at Lestrade. "Big Lil's in there, but if you wouldn't mind Greg..?"

She makes a shooing motion.

"Oh God, yes." And the policeman heads towards the back of the auditorium, his eyes studiously avoiding the stage or the beautiful woman upon it.

He looks like he's making an escape attempt.

This realisation does nothing to ease Sherlock's temper: The entire situation is simply not to be borne. For his Molly is standing in front of other men, looking beautiful and sounding beautiful, and quite frankly the only person around whom she's supposed to do that is him, by Jove...

He tries to round on Mary, but she's used Lestrade's exit to move behind the Lyceum bar. She pulls out a bottle of whiskey, setting it and two glasses down before her.

On stage, Molly hits a high note; The mainly male audience erupts into applause as Sherlock grits his teeth.

"Oh, sit down and have a drink, you great lummox," Mary says conversationally.

Sherlock glares at her. "Why on Earth should I, when my wife is blathering about on the stage for all to see?"

Mary rolls her eyes. "So that's all you can think about?" she demands. "Not how brave she was, in helping me corner Moran? Not how well she looks up there, though she's never been on a stage before?"

Much to his annoyance, a tiny stab of guilt jabs at Sherlock.

"I have always known Molly to be both brave and talented," he says stiffly. "Just as I have always known her to be ready to help a friend-"

"-Which is what she did." Mary pours the whisky with insouciant ease. "And because of her, a very dangerous man will soon be behind bars. You should be proud of her, not glaring daggers at her."

Sherlock goes to correct her, but before he can she pushes the half-full glass of whisky across the table and into his hand. Picks up her own, raising it in toast. "Try to stop being so damn missish about everything," she says. "Drink this, then go in there and take her home and show her how proud you are of her."

She knocks her drink back. Sherlock goes again to correct her, but before he can his mind snags on the word take, the choice bringing to mind all sorts of sordid, ungentlemanly, quite frankly delicious scenarios- The sort of scenarios which would leave nobody in any doubt of quite who his Molly belonged to, and who had her heart in his keeping-

 _Please darling,_ he hears her voice in his head... _Please, just like that..._

He blinks, trying to force the images away. Again, he reminds himself harshly that such urges are not what a gentleman ought to feel for his wife.

As if to mock his attempt however, another raucous masculine round of applause goes up as Molly finishes her current song and, rather than give Mary the satisfaction of following her orders to the letter, he instead throws back the whisky (trying to pretend he didn't make a face as he does so) before marching right up to the stage. Pulling off his great coat as he goes. Mad Mulligan, the man in charge of the Lyceum girls' safety, tries to stop him, but at a look from Mary he lets him through.

"Just mind your manners, son," is all he says.

Sherlock stalks forward, ignoring him.

The audience members are pressing towards the stage, reaching out for Molly (though she skillfully keeps herself away from them). Due to his death glare and judicious use of his walking stick as a weapon however, he easily makes his way to the front of the stage and stares up at his soon-to-be wife. Cocks an eyebrow at her.

Her voice dies, cheeks blooming in redness as she recognises at him.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, dear."

She looks rather like she wants to floor to open up and swallow her.

"Quite," Sherlock bites back. "Hello, my darling."

Under her husband's baleful glare, Molly goes pale. Tries, unsuccessfully, ridiculously, to cover herself with her hands, as if ashamed of herself now that she is before him. Her eyes go to Mary, seeking support perhaps, and at that Sherlock's heart, as it so often does in her presence, twists. Softens. Warms.

_How does she always manage to do that to him?_

For she drags her gaze back to his and though he's still angry he finds that it's not her his irritation is aimed at, it's all the blackguards in the audience who are staring at her and slavering over her. The blackguards in the audience who are treating her like she's naught but a piece of meat, rather than a wonderful woman and wife. That's not good enough for her. Sherlock straightens his spine: It's his own jealousy which is making him unhappy, he tells himself, he should be honest enough to own it. While he might deny it to the death, Sherlock knows that his is a possessive kind of regard- _No, a possessive kind of love._ The mere thought of all these men staring at his Molly is enough to make him jealous of every single one of them. Enough to make him want to kiss her and touch her and protect her and love her until neither she nor the world is in any doubt whatsoever of who it is she wants, and who it is she loves...

"Sherlock..." she says, and her voice sounds tiny. Worried.

It cuts him to the quick.

Without saying a word he thrusts his greatcoat onto the stage. Swings himself up onto it before wrapping the coat securely around Molly and pulling her close. He can feel her trembling slightly in his arms. With a single smooth movement he picks her up and starts carrying her offstage, his eyes fixed on hers and his pulse pounding.

"Oi!" One idiot in the audience yells. "You get that little sparrow back here! I paid for a show!"

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, about to toss the man some sort of comment, but before he can a gunshot flares, neatly clipping the wall in front of the man. He sees Mary standing at the back of the auditorium, a shotgun cocked on her shoulder and a friendly smile pasted on her face. Her glass is raised in toast, though Sherlock can't help but note that Mad Mulligan is now making his way surreptitiously into the auditorium, his eyes on the heckler.

"We're not the sort of theatre that invites audience participation," Mary says evenly. Her smile turns vulpine. "Now get Sweet Bethsheba out here for her regulars, eh? And let's all have a bloody drink!"

The audience bursts into applause as an extremely buxom, extremely scantily-clad woman darts onstage, trailing paper flower-petals in her wake.

Whether this will calm them or not, Sherlock deems irrelevant, and so he continues carrying his Molly out towards the theatre wings. His back straight. His hands on her tight and protective. She's still trembling and despite how boorish it makes him feel, it warms Sherlock's blood to tingling...

"You and I have a great deal to discuss, madame," he mutters to her and the look on her face tells him she knows as much.

* * *

 

 _I'm in so much trouble!_ Molly thinks as her new husband carries her backstage.

It is a measure of how worried she is that she doesn't even think about the rapturous applause which she just received- Or how frightened she had been when she first stepped onstage.

_Clearly, the situation with Sherlock is of more import._

For she knows he will be disappointed in her. When he married her, he thought he was taking a sensible, modest bride- And sensible, modest women do not allow Mary Morstan to talk them into helping apprehend dangerous criminals.

 _That,_ Molly reflects grimly, _is their groom's job, apparently._

At the thought she sneaks a peek at her husband, biting her lip: She does not mean to be uncharitable in her thoughts, but the nervousness he always elicits in her makes equanimity difficult.

As if sensing her eyes on him, he catches her glance, cocking an eyebrow, and she looks away, flushing. As always, she feels a slight swell of surprise that this otherworldly creature chose her to be his wife: She knows there were many others, more in line with his brilliance and character, who might have won him-

And yet he chose her.

As she thinks this, she peeks up at him: His familiar, stern brow is limned in yellow and green in the low light, the backstage gaslight making his appearance even more unyielding than usual. Even more harsh. Even more implacable.

He is, however, still very beautiful to Molly, despite his obvious displeasure.

She lets out a small, unwilling sigh, and again Sherlock's eyes flicker down to her. His gaze is stormy. Dark. Delicious.

Despite herself, she licks her lips.

"Are you sorry?" he asks, and his voice is odd. Strained. Stiff. "Are you sorry that you let all those men see you, my wife?"

He looks at her, his teeth clenched, and it's odd, but Molly can see his pulse thundering at his throat.

If she didn't know better, she'd say he was... nervous.

She brushes the thought aside. Sherlock is never nervous, and certainly not around her. "I am sorry that I have embarrassed you, husband," she says quietly. "I am sorry that you are angry with me." She gulps, forces herself to say the next. "But I am not sorry that I helped Mary bring Moran to justice- I don't believe you would wish that of me."

And she looks away.

His throat works, fingers tightening fractionally on her.

There is something electric in his silence which she can't quite put her finger on.

"No," he tells her eventually. "No, I would not have that." In the half-light she thinks that perhaps red tints his cheek; She wonders at it. Just as she wonders at how quiet he's being. Surely it bodes ill? He takes a deep breath however, and despite herself she leans into him, eager, as always to be near him...

"I will require you to put yourself at my disposal for the next few hours," he bites out. His eyes pin her, hold her steady. Again, she sees his pulse at his throat quicken. It sets her heart skittering in her chest. "In order to better show the consequences of such behavior," he continues, "I will require that you do exactly as I say-"

She lowers her eyes demurely. "Of course, my love."

He tips her face up to his. "What was that?" he asks quietly, and she can hear command in his voice.

It makes her shiver.

"Of course, my love," she repeats. "Of course I will do as you bid m-"

She doesn't get to finish, however.

For before she can, she finds herself being being kissed by her husband, his mouth hot and needy on hers. Finds herself manhandled out of the backstage area and into- she thinks it's into one of the dressing rooms?- his arms tightening on her. Panting, shocked, she finds herself thrust up against the door, then the wall.

She is absolutely pinned, and her husband's body is absolutely responsible.

Molly gasps, mind not quite able yet to understand what's happening: Sherlock's lush, sweet mouth is on hers, kissing, licking, nipping. His tongue slides along her lips, demanding entrance, and when she gives it to him, he dives in.

"Oh, my darling," he murmurs. "Oh, my sweet, sweet one...My own..." He growls, the sound low in his throat. "Oh, how I want you..."

It's all happening so quickly, a kaleidoscope of sensation. Of pleasure. Molly doesn't understand it: One moment Sherlock is all distant restraint and anger, the next he's passionate and ready and hot and eager. Hungry for her, and anxious to kiss her, as anxious as she is to kiss him.

_How can a man be both fire and ice at the same time?_

She can't catch her breath, there's so much to feel. He's hard against her hips and firm beneath her hands. The scent of his cologne clings to her, as does the heady, deep smell of his pomade. His brandy and tobacco. She can feel his chest rubbing against her pebbling nipples, even through her chemise and bodice. His body is so warm and big and so bloody wanted there against her own.

She gasps, half in surprise and half in pleasure, as her husband pulls his great-coat off her. He shrugs out of his jacket, his waistcoat and cravat: When she tries to help he grasps her wrists, forces them to her sides. She can hear his voice, unsteady and rough, against her lips, and now he seems to be saying, "mine, mine, mine," over and over again.

He's thrusting his hips in time with it.

Desire drenches Molly like rain water as instinct and pleasure mingle. Her legs fall wide and open, one thigh tightening around him as he rakes up her skirts and slides his hands towards her drawers. Roughly, he tugs them down and off, his cool, leather-gloved fingers kneading their way up her thighs. Her backside. It makes her keen in need as he slides a finger inside her, pressing inside her wetness, his thumb finding the nub of her pearl and teasing. Coaxing. Rousing.

She gasps at the feeling of being penetrated thus but to her astonishment, Sherlock merely grins darkly. Shows his teeth to her.

"Is this for me?" he asks, his smile sharp, and she nods. "Is all this sweeteness for me?" She nods again.

All she can seem to do is murmur yes and moan.

"Good." And to her infinite surprise and delight, her husband picks her up. Manhandles her over to one of the dressing tables and dumps her on it. He tosses her skirts up to her hips, takes her bottom in his big, hot hands and then pulls her roughly towards him. Harshly spreads her thighs. Her nipples tighten with desire as he yanks down her bodice. As he brusquely, harshly brings her aching, heavy-with-longing breasts to his mouth. He suckles them, licks them, until he has Molly panting for him-

 _They've done this before,_ she thinks disjointedly, _of course they have. At night. In the dark._

**_In their marriage bed._ **

But they've never before attempted such a thing in a nearly-public place, where anyone might hear, or see them. They've never strayed so far from the bounds of that propriety in which Sherlock seemed so intent to have them both stay.

And yet, she cannot bring herself to care. If it makes her a wanton then she doesn't mind it, and by the looks of things, right now her husband doesn't either.

For Sherlock's hand has moved to his flies, fingers teasing himself through the cloth before reaching inside. Pulling his cock out. He palms it, looking down at her before sliding it against her wetness. Coating himself in her dew. She feels the tip of him against her pearl, teasing, teasing, and then suddenly he's inside her, a stretch. An ache. An oh-so-wanted burn. It makes her moan like a wanton. A fraction of an inch, he moves inside her. Then another- And another and another. She pulls him to her, kissing him in open-mouthed, breathless desire-

"Fuck," he breathes out and the profanity arouses her shamefully.

"Fuck." He grunts. Pushes further inside her. In a moment she's filled by him.

Her body is stretched, her arms as full of him as she can bear, and still it doesn't feel like he'll ever, ever stop. 

He meets her eyes and there's a beautiful, terrible restraint in him in this moment. A need as well as a wanting. A desire to be lost and found. He looks at her and she can see how much he's trying to hold onto his control. His self-possession. It's always been his most treasured trait, and yet-

"Do you want me?" he asks her through gritted teeth. "Do you want me inside you, wife?"

She nods. "Oh God, yes. Yes." She moves her hips to show him and he growls for her. Nips sharply at her shoulder, which only makes her wetter. "There's nothing that I want more," she tells him, 

Something else, something more vulnerable moves through his gaze.

"Do you love me?" he asks, more softly. "Is it I that you love? Is it I you willingly give yourself to?"

Molly nods, confused and yet knowing somehow that she wants to reassure him. Understanding on some very basic level that his question has import beyond what she knows right now.

"I will never give myself to anyone," she tells him, "as I give myself to you." She presses a kiss to his lips. "Have I ever given you cause to doubt that, my love?"

He shakes his head, bites his lip. That terrible restraint of his is buckling and she knows it.

She wants it to buckle. She wants it to give way.

And yet he doesn't move, not yet.

She makes a small mewl of impatience and he kisses her. Silences her. Commands her. Still holding her gaze he presses her down onto her back, her hands held above her head. Molly stares up at him, at those extraordinary, quicksilver eyes that she has loved for so long, and at long last he begins to move. To press into her. To pleasure her. To love her. "Yes," she moans, over and over. "Yes, please, oh please, yes..."

"Give yourself to me," he tells her, and that is what she does. For-

Forehead to forehead, not an hairsbreath of space between them, he moves within her.

Forehead to forehead, not an hairsbreath of space between them, he makes her cry out. Makes her call his name and tell him she's his.

Molly gives herself over to him, over to everything. She cares nothing for anything else right now. She locks her legs around his hips and matches his pace, matches him thrust for thrust. Breath for breath. It feels gorgeous; Their flesh meets, slapping together, moans coming loudly.

Sherlock's mouth is on hers and his cock is inside her and though she knows she should be embarrassed, she finds she doesn't care, not at all.

For there's too much pleasure to be worried. Too much joy, too much Sherlock. Their bodies meet, flesh singing together. Pleasure washes through her, making her gasp and sigh and writhe for him. Making her grunt as swear and plead. Her climax comes suddenly, unexpectedly, a snap of pleasure like a hiss of lightning, jolting out from her cunny to light up her insides. Emotion washes through her in its aftermath, making her heart and her mind dizzy with joy. _It's the sort of pleasure she only ever finds when she's with him._ Sherlock keeps going, his pace merciless, his movements turning jerky and uncontrollable as he finally succumbs to that need he so seldom allows himself-

"Fuck," he hisses, teeth gritted together. "Fuck, Molly-"

"Come for me, darling," Molly tells him, and when their eyes meet again, he does.

His climax seems to shake him, to flounder him just as surely as it gives him pleasure. She holds him through it, stroking him and kissing him, her arms held strong and sure about him-

When he finally stops moving he stares at her in something that might almost be awe.

For a long, vulnerable moment they stare at one another, and then-

"Enough..?" he asks, and, "Did you..?"

She nods. Kisses him.

"Of course I did," she tells him. "Of course I did, my love."

If he holds onto her a little more tightly than usual, or kisses her more sweetly than usual, why she's not going to point it out. Molly's not so foolish as that.

Rather she stares down at her husband, now spent and butter-boned in her arms. He seems oddly... sheepish in his behaviour, as if he's embarrassed, perhaps, at what they did. How much he let himself go with her. Molly knows the reaction well: for all that he loves her, he will never find it easy to give of himself entirely- And she suspects he did give himself entirely in this, just as she suspects that she gave herself entirely too.

_She finds that she, at least, doesn't mind it._

"Are you- Are you injured?" he asks after a moment, his voice hesitant. "Have I- Did I frighten you?"

Molly looks at him and he won't meet her eyes.

"I was boorish," he says, "and overbearing, and-"

"Wonderful," she finishes for him, firmly. "You were wonderful."

Now it's her turn to not meet his eyes.

"That is to say," she adds when he doesn't speak, "I mean that I-"

Before she can say anything more he kisses her again, soft and sweet and oh so loving. When they pull apart the uncertainty has left his gaze; The devilment, however, has returned.

"We should... We should experiment further with this," he says quietly. Sternly.

When she looks at him, here's a brightness that makes her heart swoop delightfully.

"Yes, my love," she says, lowering her eyes demurely. "I'm sure I shall need to be further reprimanded for my behaviour-" She risks a peek at him. "Rather severely reprimanded, I should say."

Sherlock kisses her softly on her lips before telling her, "Yes, I rather think you are right- wife."

The promise in his voice makes Molly smile... But it's the way he kisses her as he helps her back into her dress that makes her heart sing.


End file.
